news for you, fatal enough! Landshut is done;
Fouquet and his valiant 13,000 are trodden out there. Indignant Fouquet
has obeyed you, not wisely but too well. He has kept Landshut six nights
and five days. On the morning of the sixth day, here is what befell:--

"LANDSHUT, MONDAY, 23d JUNE, About a quarter to two in the morning,
Loudon, who had gathered 31,000 horse and foot for the business, and
taken his measures, fired aloft, by way of signal, four howitzers into
the gray of the summer morning; and burst loose upon Fouquet, in various
columns, on his southward front, on both flanks, ultimately in his rear
too: columns all in the height of fighting humor, confident as three to
one,--and having brandy in them, it is likewise said. Fouquet and
his people stood to arms, in the temper Fouquet had vowed they would:
defended their Hills with an energy, with a steady skill, which Loudon
himself admired; but their Hill-works would have needed thrice the
number;--Fouquet, by detaching and otherwise, has in arms only 10,680
men. Toughly as they strove, after partial successes, they began to lose
one Hill, and then another; and in the course of hours, nearly all their
Hills. Landshut Town Loudon had taken from them, Landshut and its
roads: in the end, the Prussian position is becoming permeable, plainly
untenable;--Austrian force is moving to their rearward to block the
retreat.

"Seeing which latter fact, Fouquet throws out all his Cavalry, a poor
1,500, to secure the Passes of the Bober; himself formed square with the
wrecks of his Infantry; and, at a steady step, cuts way for himself with
bayonet and bullet. With singular success for some time, in spite of the
odds. And is clear across the Bober; when lo, among the knolls ahead,
masses of Austrian Cavalry are seen waiting him, besetting every
passage! Even these do not break him; but these, with infantry and
cannon coming up to help them, do. Here, for some time, was the fiercest
tug of all,--till a bullet having killed Fouquet's horse, and carried
the General himself to the ground, the spasm ended. The Lichnowski
Dragoons, a famed Austrian regiment, who had charged and again charged
with nothing but repulse on repulse, now broke in, all in a foam of
rage; cut furiously upon Fouquet himself; wounded Fouquet thrice; would
have killed him, had it not been for the heroism of poor Trautschke,
his Groom [let us name the gallant fellow, even if unpronounceable],
who flung himself